


Maktub

by Supersonicat



Category: The Old Guard (Comics), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Crusades, Developing Relationship, Enemies to Lovers, Internalized Homophobia, Love, M/M, Religious Conflict, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:35:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25470238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Supersonicat/pseuds/Supersonicat
Summary: God knows what he does, and why he does it. Everything has a purpose.There is no right God. God or Allah or whatever name He was called, his power and will were sovereign.He knows everything. If it happened it was because it was supposed to happen.Maktub.It was already written..The love story of a former Christian priest and a Muslim merchant during the Crusades.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 39
Kudos: 151





	1. Chapter 1

Nicolo di Genova had faith in God. He had evidences during his short life that had convinced him of the existence of The Divine Power: When he asked to _Jesus Christ_ to be found as a child when he fell into a hunter's trap while playing at the fields around his hometown, hours later, hunters came to meet him, when he barely had the strength to keep his hands together after so long in prayer. Or when he had prayed every night for weeks, in his fresh adolescent years, asking for his younger brother to be cured of a deadly disease that aggravated little _Giuseppe_ for late nights. He promised at that time that he would dedicate his whole life to the priesthood if the divine heard his prayers; and after Giuseppe woke up one morning finally aware after days of high fever, Nicolo did so.

His faith became even more solid during his years in clergy. Stormy souls came to the church and he felt honored to help them through the darkness. Mothers who lost children were comforted, people in misery and desperation found strength in his words - and in the piece of bread he shared in the back of the church without the old bishop being aware -, sick people sought salvation for their sins before they left forever. His calling was unquestionable, his God was sovereign and powerful and he would do anything for him.

The arrival of the Holy War for the conquest of the sacred land was also not something that he had any doubt that was right. _God_ deserved that. _His_ pure land free from heretics and pagans who did not respect _his_ power or mercy. So what was left for them was to face _his_ anger. God's anger.

Nicolo was a warrior even before he was a priest. Even at a young age, he already mastered the heavy sword with such skill that surprised his father and uncles. He was tall compared to most priests, young and strong. However, he did not fail to question himself when the Italian army began to summon the young men of Genova to enlist to war, whether he should leave the church or not; to give up his vocation didn't seem right; his divine mission was something above anything for him. Then, one night, before going to sleep, he knelt on the bed given him in the monastery, asking God what he should do; what was his destiny.

The answer came that same night while sleeping. God had never failed him. In his dreams he had seen an arid land, many people walking through narrow streets that did not look like those in Genova or anywhere he knew. They spoke an unknown language. In his dream, there was a man who appeared to him in flashes: tall, brown skin, dark curly hair, eyes black as night. This man hugged an old lady with a tunic on his head that protected her from the strong sun. They were at the door of a house in the middle of one of those unknown alleys, beside the woman was a small girl, also with black and curly hair. They spoke things that Nicolo did not understand, until the man approached the child and hugged her too, then he put on a leather armor and places a strange sword behind his back; he took a horse that was lashed beside the house and started to walk in a direction that Nicolo did not know what it was.

Nicolo woke up in the morning, sweaty and confused. He ran a hand over his chest. He still felt the weight of that leather armor, as if he was wearing it himself; there was nothing there but the clothes he wore to sleep. The sun hit his bed through the window while illuminating the entire monastery. A strange sensation took over his body, for a second he thought his heart had stopped, he was short of breath. He closed his eyes taking a deep breath, while an electric current seemed to take over his body. Something had changed. Yes, something had changed. He looked at his hands, twitching his fingers slowly. It was his hands, but he still felt the net of that mysterious man's horse on them. What was that?

He heard beyond the monastery, the sound of horses, armor and the voices of men passing by. It was the answer. God's answer. His faith was beyond the walls of the church. His destiny was beyond the priesthood. It was in arid lands with swords that he did not know.

His mission was to defend God. Not as a priest, but as a warrior.

And when he took off his beard that morning, with a sharp razor, ready to inform the bishop that he was going to join the army that would take the Holy Land, Nicolo did not notice that he had cut himself under the cheek. Nor had he noticed that the small wound had healed in seconds.

.

Yusuf Al-Kaysani sat beside his tent at one night, duly sewn by his mother before he went to war. The pain of leaving his mother at the doorway had been immense, and he saw in his mother's eyes the hopelessness of seeing him again. It had been like that with his father and his older brother, murdered in an unscrupulous ambush when the war was not yet declared. The Holy War. The Crusades. His little sister did not understand why he would leave, and looked up at him, herher eyes black as his, questioning without words. Will you return? He hugged her after letting go of his mother's fragile body. Little _Latiffa_ wrapped him in her small arms, murmuring in his ear words that he did not expect to hear from such a small child _: May peace be with you, my dear brother._

It broke Yusuf's heart. But he had to leave. To defender his land, his descendants, whatever it costs. _Maktub_. It was written. As much as he wanted to stay there and take care of his loved ones, he was young and a good fighter; his father had taught him how to fight according to everything he had learned in foreign lands as a merchant. Yusuf would be a great help to the Islamist army. Defenders of the land from the immoral invaders that wanted to dominate them.

He had hope. He had faith. _Allah_ would guide him through battles and allow him to see his family once again soon. He built a small fire beside him. Each warrior had his own small source of heat. Deserts. Hot as hell by day, freezing cold at night. Thankfully, there was still bushes around that could provide them with this privilege. Soon, when they get even closer to the battlefield, there was no wood for everyone, and they should be content with any fire that anyone could make.

At that moment, many rested while some were on the lookout. It wasn’t his turn to watch, but he could not sleep. He was entertained by his sketchbook; leather cover, more blank sheets than drawn yet. His father, since he was a child, knew about his talent as a painter and always presented him with notebooks and new charcoal to exercise. This was the last gift, before he and his brother _Samir_ were killed while returning from a business trip. That was months ago. And it felt like yesterday. He still remembered his father's words before he left. He said that this time it would not be necessary for Yusuf to accompany him and Samir, it was a quick trip. _Focus on finding a good wife, it's time for you to get married._ The last memory he had of his father was of his smile behind the big white beard. _When we get back we will have a big celebration._ There was no time for that when news of the attacks on merchants spread across the region. Yusuf did not have time to find a wife or do anything else besides to comfort his mother and _Latiffa_ , and of course, to wish to avenge the death of his relatives.

He kept thinking, blaming himself. If he had gone with them, maybe they would have had a chance. Yusuf was a strong, fast, skilled man. He could have defended them. Right? He didn't know, but the helplessness of not even having to be there to help them consumed him. Of course, he wondered if he should leave the two women behind and follow the flow of war. But an answer came after his last prayer of the day, when he left the rug he used to kneel beside the bed. He had dreamed of battles, blood and a man with light skin and bright eyes. This man was skilled, he had seen him fight nights before, a wooden cross was around his neck and he was hitting his people - Yusuf's people - with a sharp sword and then... when it was all over, when the other invaders got on their horses prepared to continue towards Jerusalem, the light-eyed warrior joined hands, looked at the sky and spoke words that he understood little. It was Latin when he prayed, but when he spoke it was a similar language, but he did not understand it. Italian perhaps, for his armor.

Yusuf finished his drawing, lit by the flames of his small fire, the face of the young Italian warrior stamped on the paper. Facing him with a sword and willpower. He analyzed the drawing. Modesty apart, he was a really good draftsman, because the man was exactly like his dreams.

But one detail was missing, he had a mole on his face, on his cheek. Yusuf remembered. When Yusuf went to add it to the drawing the coal fell and rolled into the flames. He, by instinct, put his hand on the fire to pick up the coal, without thinking. Idiot. He had burned his hand. It hurt. He squeezed the wound, then took a cloth from inside the tent to cover it. Yusuf cursed, while bandaging his hand, the fabric touching the sensitive skin painfully. Perhaps it would be better to rest, soon it would be dawn and he would have to march northwards to prevent more troops from entering his territory more deeply.

In the morning Yusuf, packed his things and disappeared into desert with his companions. He forgot his bandaged hand. It didn't hurt anymore.

If he had removed the cloth that wrapped his hand, perhaps he would have noticed that there was no sign of any burns there.

.


	2. Chapter 2

When they first met face to face, it was not easy to describe. Nicolo and Yusuf had dreamed of each other so many nights before, that it didn't really feel like reality, just another dream.

Flashes of bloody battles and bodies lying on the ground were there, in each dream. One saw what the other saw. Massacres, deadly struggles, lives being taken in a fraction of a second. Soldiers from their troops, who they knew were family fathers, were there, lying on the ground lifeless. The war was fiery, without choices and without forgiveness. Miraculously, both of them were still there, on the front line, alive after each fight, after each battle. Arrows passed by them, sharp daggers, shining swords… sometimes Nicolo and Yusuf were almost certain that they were hit by the enemy's attacks. But there they were, unscathed, swords raised, certain that each onslaught that seemed promising by the enemy was accurate, but it was merely an impression. They did not touch them, because right after each battle there were not even scratches on their tired bodies.

 _That arrow grazed, that sword almost hit me._ They were mistaken, even after feeling the pain of a light cut of an almost fatal spear. They paid no attention to details. It was God, the divine, defending them from their enemies. God was there. In every step, every new fight. Protecting them.

They stayed that way for months. Their names were being remembered during that time.

There he was, Nicolo from the city of Genova, a formidable and calculating warrior.

There he was, Yusuf, defender of Maghreb, fearless and fatal.

Their combat companions and even themselves didn't even notice anything different. They did not notice that that arrow had indeed hit Nicolo's shoulder, not in a fatal way, but in a way that it would leave a wound that would take days to heal. Or that Yusuf, had received a spear that rubbed in his cheek sharply, but that at the end of the battle there was only blood, and no scratch.

In the heat of battle, the details were just details. And victories were those that were remembered.

In the name of _God_. In the name of _Allah_. And in the name of their two lands. They remained fighting.

Hard, cunning, deadly.

It was during midday they finally, _finally_ , meet each other.

After months of war, after months of meaningless dreams that woke them in a daze.

When they first met, at first, they did not know that they were facing the same man who tormented their dreams. Nicolo wore his metal helmet for protection and Yusuf had his face covered with a black mesh. Swords in hand, screams and bodies that they left around themselves during the fight, in the midst of the Christian and Muslim hatred that right there, in front their eyes, cut throats and crossed the bellies of their companions.

They started to fight. A Christian warrior. A Muslim warrior. Like so many others they have faced. Swords sliced through the air before they meet between them. Quick steps and skilled hands moved to meet between their bodies. Both were strong men, and they pushed hard with their swords, until they were thrown back by themselves. Deep breaths, the battle still taking place around them; the two troops dying for the sacred land.

Another onslaught at the same time. Sword with sword. Force with force. Cuts in the air. Defenses. Attempts to punch and kick. Force with force again. Steps back again. A thought in their heads:

_I’m facing a good warrior._

Once again Nicolo went forward, and almost hit his opponent's arm, who deftly dodged, but the Italian, released a deft hand, and punched the abdomen of the other who howled, falling to the ground. It was _now_ , he threw his sword up, ready to cut the man, when a stone hit him hard on the head. Not strong enough to hurt, because of the helmet that protected him from the impact, but that blurred his vision after it deteriorated with the attack. He went back, no longer seeing.

The bastard had defended himself as well as he could. Rising from the ground, with his strange sword in hand, preparing for the next charge, wheezing, his black mesh full of dust from the ground.

Nicolo couldn't see with that helmet. And he took it off immediately, so he could concentrate better on that fight. This was no ordinary enemy. He tossed the metal to the floor and wielded his sword once again, feeling the dry wind over his face skin for the first time that day. The smell of blood and death was in the air, and he still heard the screams and noises of battle just beside them.

Yusuf froze, recognizing that face. That clear skin, red by the Arabian sun. His big, pointed nose, his mouth tight in concentration and his eyes, his bright eyes, a mixture of green and blue; a color he had never been able to achieve when he mixed paints to draw at home as an infant, were staring at him in a deadly way. The cross was there too, made of wood, around his neck, showing itself proudly beyond the armor. And _that_ mole, below his right cheek, just as Yusuf had seen in all the dreams he had for months.

_It was him._

Yusuf felt his blood boiling in his veins. A strange feeling. A mixture of confusion and distress. He couldn't breathe with the power of those fierce eyes on him and that mesh on his face was not helping him. In a rapid movement, he took it off quickly, before the other man had the chance to attack him again.

It was Nicolo's turn to freeze.

The curly hair, the full beard, the determined and fearless expression and those black eyes that followed him in his dreams. The man with the strange sword, which he had learned months ago entering those lands that it was called _Scimitar_ , had materialized in front of him. Nicolo swallowed, felling the saliva thicken in his dry mouth.

_It was him._

God knew what he was doing. They had been dreaming of each other, because they must meet. Perhaps, perhaps that was the divine sign. Of _God_ , of _Allah_.

They were finally facing each other.

The man of their dreams, the man they had to face. Perhaps God had warned them. They had to face a great warrior. They both knew that the man in front of him was a good fighter. They had already seen each other fight in their dreams. The divine had dictated their steps, until they found their true opponent.

Perhaps the course of the war would change after that.

Perhaps, by killing your opponent, it would end.

The war would end.

If Nicolo won the fight, Christianity would be sovereign, if Yusuf won, Islamism would be sovereign.

It was just a question. One question _: Which God would be more powerful?_

Swords clashed once more. Calculated, fast, accurate movements. More and more the war cries around were ending, more and more warriors found their fatal destinies on the dry ground, while others fled on their horses.

But Nicolo and Yusuf didn't care. That was it. That battle that mattered. The sharp noise of their swords echoed in the air, the sweat on their heads, the statist eyes in those of their opponents. Green and black, dilated pupils. They walked in a strange dance, between thrusts and defense, attempts to punch, strong legs to deceive each other's balance. Did seconds pass? Minutes? Hours? They didn't know.

The warm blood running through the veins was the only certainty they had.

 _I need to kill this man_. It is destiny. It's supposed to happen. Their _gods_ had shown them.

In a rapid movement of both parts, both moved their bodies by turning. Sword with sword. And again. Sword with sword. Once again.

Despair. Agony. War. God, please. Allah, please. It's time. Help me.

Another turn of both men. And that was it. Nicolos' sword stopped in Yusuf's belly, in a deep blow, which crossed his chest to his back, while Yusuf tore Nicolo's throat in a large cut that went from end to end. They looked at each other hopelessness . Green and black. It was the end.

Nicolo put his hand to his throat and blood spurted on his fingers. Yusuf felt blood come in his mouth and spat it, red and fluid on the ground, as his body started to fall heavily.

There were no more war cries, they could not hear them anymore. There was no more battle sound.

Nicolo's body fell next to Yusuf's, side by side. They looked in each other eyes again.

They were going to die. There. Now. It was time.

"I hope God has no mercy on your soul" - Nicolo murmured in Italian, contradicting all the requests he had made to God, for the souls of the pagans he had killed; his head on the ground, a trail of blood coming out of his mouth.

"I hope you burn in hellfire" - Yusuf said in Arabic, after sobbing and felling tears in his eyes; for his family, for himself.

Eye to eye, they died.

The _Divine_ wanted it that way.

It was already written.

.


	3. Chapter 3

It was night when Nicolo woke up. He coughed hard, felt his body tingle from his toe to the tip of his ears. The temperature had dropped a lot, he noticed it when he felt the moisture of his dirty sweat cooling his skin. Yes, it was night, he realized as soon as his eyes managed to focus on the dark sky above him. Black crows flew in line; Nicolo smelled blood, smelled broken meat, so crows must have smelled it too. There was no more battle, the empty silence was only cut by the noise of those birds.

Nicolo slowly lifted his body, propping himself up on his elbows, a spot in his head was still torturing him, but it was soon gone, as the tingling also left his body. He looked at his hands, his eyes took a long time to adjust to the darkness. Only the moon was a source of light. There was a lot of blood in them.

Flashes of what had actually happened had come back to him. The battle, the man with the scimitar, his own throat cut. He had experienced death. And he knew very well that he had died. Life draining away in seconds that felt like hours. Slow motion. The incomprehensible words spoken by the warrior of his dreams before Nicolo's life ended for good, the tear that Nicolo had seen leave those black eyes when he noticed that his opponent was also dying.

 _That_ man! Nicolo quickly turned around to meet the Arab warrior's static eyes. No movement, his mouth was soaked with blood as was his black beard. He didn't move. He was dead.

The Italian did not understand why he did not feel the satisfaction he expected when he realized that he had taken the life of his opponent. The man who broke into his dreams, the man that God had destined for him, Nicolo, to defeat. No. In fact, Nicolo couldn't feel anything but confusion. He saw. He saw the muslim man cut his throat deeply, he felt his neck being precisely torn in one blow at the same time that he had stuck his sword in that man's belly. He had seen that dark tunnel and the light that guided him to the end of it. Straight to paradise. He was almost sure that he had seen the green fields of Eden's garden, smelled the spring, heard the singing of perfectly harmonized nigthgales... So, how? Why?

He had got up. God! He didn't even feel pain! The sound of horses could be heard in the distance. He stretched his neck, the cavalry did not have the red flags of the Crusades. They were muslims. He had to get out of there. Whatever had happened, it couldn't happen again.

Groans of pain caught his hears. For one second, he thought it was from the Arab he killed, but he soon realized that it came from a few meters away from him. It was his troop commander, Lord Enrico. A man much older than him, but experienced in battles. He went to him, helping him to sit.

"Come on, they're coming"

"Nicolo" - the other man said in surprised - "I thought-" - He coughed hard, the noise of the cavalry approached them - "Go, save yourself. I can't walk" - he said, in fact one of his legs looked broken.

"Cut the bullshit! Let's go" - Nicolo said, putting one of the man's arm over his own shoulder.

"We're both going to die! Come on, save yourself!" - Nicolo did not move, looking at him with regret - "Save yourself, idiot! It's an order!"

Nicolo let go. Obeying it.

"I will avenge you, commander. I will avenge everyone!"

"I know you will... Now go!" - Enrico replied before passing out again.

Then he came closer to that man, _that_ man, and took out his sword that was still locked in his chest, the blade covered with clotted blood.

Nicolo took one last look at the inert body of the Arabian, analyzing the dirty battle features of that face that had disturbed his sleep for so many months. Finished. In the end, his God was more powerful, whatever _He_ had done. After he would think better of that _miracle_ that was bestowed upon him. Now, the only thing he had to do, was to run in the betting direction of another Arabic warrior.

Seconds later Yusuf coughed hard on to the air. 

.

“Another injured man!”- Yusuf listened while coughing loudly. He was trying to breathe, to get air into his lungs that seemed not to have received oxygen in a while – “It is one of ours!” - Yusuf saw horses coming towards him. There was an muslim man on the front, by the accent in his voice as Yusuf hear his words, he might be from a region close to Yusuf's hometown – “Comrade, what a barbarity! We didn't make it in time! Are you fine? What happened here?”

Yusuf closed his eyes again. The memories were still scattered in his mind. It had been like remembering a dream after waking up - “Ambush” - he replied - "But we were already waiting. They are not as silent as they think…”

Yusuf managed to sit up. More flashes in his head. _That_ man! He had killed that man and... that man had killed him too! Yusuf turned sideways in the direction that the body had fallen beside him. His surprise had been immense; there was no body there!

Did his eyes deceive him? Was he delusional? Shouldn't the light-eyed warrior be dead by his side? Shouldn't he be dead himself?

“Comrade…?” – the man on the horse spoke slowly, as if he had called him again. Yusuf turned to him once more – “You need care. Look at your state, warrior. Come, let's take you to where we are camped”

Yusuf did not answer, leading his hands to the top of his belly, where he would see a fatal wound that cut him. He had felt the point of the sword come out on his back! How did he feel no pain at all?

He finally realized that a few Muslim men of his own troop were helped by the friendly cavalry that had arrived, one screamed loudly in pain, he hurt his right arm in the battle badly… an other man had a large cut on the face. Three christian survivors were lined up and bound like prisoners for interrogation – the right word may be torture - in order to spill out enemy information.

“Can you get up?” - That question terrified him. He shouldn't be able to get up, he should be dead. But his legs no longer faltered, the strength of his arms had returned. He stood up, startling the man on the horse - "You are brave"

Yusuf did not reply. He swept the area with his eyes in alert and confusion.

There was no sign of _his_ Christian warrior there.

.

“They haven't said anything so far. I mean, the older bastard speaks a little Greek, the others only Italian. But I don't think they would cooperate. One of them is already dying anyway” – Mohamed, the man who rescued him from the battlefield was telling him as they arrived at the tent destined to arrest the prisoners of war. Yusuf accompanied him on the dry dirt floor, it was already morning.

“Dying? Shouldn't he be cared for?”

Mohamed stopped walking, arching his too long furry eyebrows.

“They are invaders, destroyers of our land” - Mohamed said with indignation as if Yusuf had spoken some heresy – “They do not deserve any compassion of _Allah,_ let alone ours” - Yusuf avoided Mohamed’s eyes. No, he had no compassion when he fought against any Christian. But neither did he think it was up to them, mere mortals, to judge the punishment of their enemies. Death was already a punishment in itself, from then on, it was up to Allah to decide what he would do with those sinners. The war was cruel. But the torture was diabolical. But he dared not say anything more about it; and he had a good reason for that– “You seem good to me…” - The other man announced, measuring Yusuf from top to bottom; Yusuf swallow hard.

Mohamed suspected, Yusuf knew it. But Yusuf did not know exactly what the other could actually suspect. The night before, when he and the other wounded ones arrived at that new camp, it was a very big bustle. The arm of his battle mate, Omar, also rescued, was to be amputated, there was no salvation. His other companion, Amir, would lose sight of one eye. Healers were worried about Yusuf too, but Yusuf himself claimed that the other two needed more urgent care. Amid the surgeries of them both, it was Yusuf himself who had cleaned his own stomach. Beyond blood, there was only his skin, without any scar. There was no sign that _that_ warrior's sword had cut him in half. He didn't know what to think, he was confused. What was that? Was he dreaming?

No, Omar and Amir's cries of pain were true. This was reality.

And even there, being analyzed by Mohamed's questioning eyes in front of the tent, Yusuf still had not found any justification for what had happened.

“I was lucky” – it was the only thing that Yusuf managed to answer – “I won't be long, you may stay with us the whole time, friend Mohamed” - Mohamed gave him an enigmatic look, and then smiled strangely. Yusuf could not risk it. A man who got away from an attack without scratches and then asked to talk to one of the prisoners of his own attack… it was really suspicious. Yusuf was planning to soon prove to Mohamed that there was nothing to suspect of him; in the next fight, in the next confrontation, he would show his honor and value for the resistance of the Muslim people. But at that moment, he needed answers… and he suspected that those Christians held there could help him.

Inside the tent, the three men were chained. Numerous signs of aggression on their skins. One of them looked unconscious, almost dead. The other one concentrated his eyes directly at some point and did not seem to be really there. The oldest was the only one who had looked up when Yusuf and Mohamed entered. Mohamed remained at the door of the tent, while Yusuf went towards the Christian. From his dressing, he looked like the troop commander.

"What do you want, filthy?" - The Italian spoke in Greek, spitting the words in hate – “Isn't it enough to arrest and assault me?”

“I didn't arrest you. Much less have I fought with you” - Yusuf informed, trying his best to articulate in Greek. He knew the language, but neither was he fluent - “I was there… at the battle. And fought one of you. A warrior. Big clear eyes... he has a mole on his cheek”

The commander just looked at him for a few seconds.

“Nicolo?”

Yusuf's heart began to beat faster. He felt his body shudder at the mention of that name.

“Ni-Nicolo?” - he repeated the name slowly, as if he wanted to memorize it.

“Nicolo Di Genova” - the commander laughed, he took a deep breath and leaned forward, a defiant look in his tired eyes - "He is the best warrior I have ever seen fight. You are not an opponent for _him_ "

“Am I not?” - Yusuf raised an eyebrow – “I killed him”

Another laugh came from the Italian.

“Is that what you think?” - Now Yusuf's heart seemed to stop for a second. So that man, Nicolo, hadn't died? Was he alive after Yusuf had cut his throat?

“Where is he?” - Yusuf asked urgently. The Italian did not reply. He didn't say anything else after that. Men from that troop arrived at the tent, ready to question the three prisoners again. Yusuf could not see that.

He left the tent quickly; his confused head hurt, he didn't understand. He couldn't comprehend what was going on. Was _Nicolo_ alive?

Screams from inside the tent began to be heard and Yusuf had to close his fists to control himself. He wanted to go in there and bury those acts. Dying in battle was one thing; it was honorable to die when you are fighting for what you believe… But submitting someone to this it was... it was ...

Another groan. Two sound could be heard: a sword in the air and a head being cut off. And Yusuf couldn't do anything. Mohamed already suspected, he would be considered a traitor... without battle marks like the others, without even a scratch…

His nails clenched his hands so tightly that he was bleeding.

That was when he realized; Yusuf felt his hand tingle, he looked at them and, for the first time, he saw the wounds heal, little by little, a clot was formed in seconds then the skin was reconstructed. There were no more cuts there.

The men left the tent.

"That one was going to die anyway" - said one of the guards.

The following dawn, Yusuf entered the tent, without any of the others in the troop noticing him; he took advantage of the lack of attention from the soldiers guarding the entrance. And equipped of water and a piece of bread, he knelt in front of the other two Christians survivors.

The almost unconscious commander looked at him questioningly.

"I don't agree with _this_. But I can't do anything" - Yusuf replied. The commander accepted what he had to offer. The other Italian warrior was no longer reacting.

"You put yourself in risk"

"I do what I think is right"

The commander laughed lightly, after taking another sip of water.

"I was wrong" - he looked Yusuf in the eye - "You are an opponent for _him_ "

.

Months had passed, the crusaders troops that Nicolo was now following, headed to Constantinople. It wasn't easy to survive the desert alone for days, but the lack of water and food incredibly did not make his body give up. Nicolo had spent days, weeks, in a state that he did not know how to decipher. He had been confused, afraid... he had felt alone as he had never felt in his life. 

It could only be a miracle. A miracle. God had given him a second chance. That was what he was trying to convince himself of. He still needed to fight, he still had a mission and that is why God had saved him from death.

That was what he kept telling himself. And he kept doing so, even as he started to notice that it was not only that he did not die _that_ time, but that his battle wounds healed soon after they were made during every battle since.

It scared him. Yes, but he tried to face this miracle rationally. As if _that_ were something that could be rational. A man who came back from death, a man who could not get hurt.

God should have a very specific plan for him, because if not, he didn't know why he could have this _gift_.

 _Gift_ , yes, because it scared him even more to think it was a curse. He was a former priest. He had faith, how would he be the target of a curse?

Well, he started to have doubts about it when his troop was caught on a hot night. Islamist warriors had surprised them.

It had been a bloody fight. The arrival of the crusades to Constantinople scared the rivals; it was the way closer and closer towards Jerusalem. Nicolo confronted the warriors bravely. Swords did not touch him and when they did lightly, he killed his opponents even before the wounds heal. That's when he heard:

"NICOLO!"

A scream. His name.

He turned, and his surprise was so great, he felt his legs dangle.

It was him. _That_ warrior! The Arab warrior he had killed! But how? Since that battle months ago, he had never dreamed of him again! No more! That was over! That man shouldn't... it shouldn't be his mission anymore! That mission was over! He had killed him!

But there he was. His curly hair flying with dry wind, his scimitar in his hands, and his black eyes fixed on Nicolo's.

It couldn't be! He was also alive!

_And he knew his name?_

The warrior approached him. Standing a few meters from Nicolo.

And it all happened again.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now things are going to start getting good!
> 
> Please, leave me a comment! They encourage me to continue! :)

They killed each other. Many times. They were always fatal. Even if one hit the other first, the last one always managed to take his enemy with him. Yusuf received a heavy rock to his head shortly after striking Nicolo with the sword. Another time, a torn throat Yusuf managed, in his last seconds, to hit the Italian's femoral artery with his knife, which he always carried hidden, and Nicolo did not take long to bleed to death by his side.

At first Yusuf and Nicolo really believed that at _some point_ one of them would not come back to life. It was what God, _Allah_ , wanted, right? One would have to be able to kill the other, there had to be an end to that...

But there they were, face to face in an upcoming battle, surprised to once again meet and realized that they had not yet managed to finish their mission.

They met many times. In Constantinople, İznik... accompanied by different troops at each new time, they marched towards each other, always surrounded by new fighting companions who barely had any idea that besides this Holy War, something supernatural would be happening to two _so_ different warriors.

Then, it had started to be something _distint_. A hunt, maybe; in the middle of any battlefield, they always were looking for each other and whenever their eyes crossed, adrenaline ran through their veins.

_Is it this time? Am I going to make it this time? Or will I be the loser?_

Doubt always accompanied them, they were very aware that they should not underestimate _that_ enemy; but at the same time an edge of excitement was always there, whenever their swords crossed in the air. And when by chance, they fought a fight against another rival troop and realized that _their_ warrior was not there... a feeling of emptiness insisted on taking control of both men.

They did not understand why. Or maybe they didn't want to understand... not yet. But deep down, they knew, that there must be an explanation. A connection. _Yes_ , they were connected in some way, they were destined for this _mission_ , which looked more like a punishment, but now, at the same time, besides their ideals and faith, this _mission_ was what moved them both to each new fight, each new battle.

They still had no idea. But destiny would prove to them that perhaps they were not _that_ different. Perhaps they were not only special because they were bestowed – or cursed - with this strange gift at the moment, but also because they were special people. They would realize... little by little… in the right moments.

.

Another battle between them.

They were on the outskirts of Antioch. The Muslims tried to prevent more troops from approaching the city. There were already many crusaders surrounding the town and they would probably attack soon to conquer the territory. Water and food were scarce and the mission of the Islamist troop, that Yusuf was now incorporated, was to prevent the arrival of a new cavalry that would carry supplies.

Obviously Yusuf was unable to give an opinion on that. He learned during those months living with his new Allah given ability, that the less attention he had on him, the better it would be. Even if it implied doing something he didn't agree with. Besides, it was evident that the scarcity of resources would make the enemies even more furious and deadly. There was no loot when they dominated İznik, but that did not mean that the Franks would continue to keep their votes, especially in the situation they were in. It would be a catastrophe if the Christian army managed to invade Antioch now.

So, there they were, fighting again. And as always, the end was the same. They fell side by side, a little further from the battlefield.

When Yusuf woke up, the fighting between the troops was over again. No surviving Christians, and the remaining, victorious, muslim warriors surrounded the site.

Yusuf looked at the Italian next to him, his scimitar had gone straight through his opponent's heart this time. It probably would take longer to recover. _If_ he recovered. In any case, Yusuf could not risk it. If his troop companions found Nicolo alive, he would undoubtedly be captured as a prisoner. And Yusuf already knew very well what that meant.

No. They couldn't get Nicolo. At this point, Yusuf tried to convince himself that the reason he took the Christian in his arms and snuck him out of sight of the other Arabs, was because it would be a great risk to himself. What would happen if they found out that Nicolo could not die. What would they do if they found out that he, Yusuf, could not die either? Once again without any scars… curious and suspicious looks had followed him for months.

No, he couldn't let Nicolo be captured.

 _Or maybe it was because he didn't want Nicolo to be tortured?_ If he could not die, it would be endless.

One way or another, he cared Nicolo to a small clearing. He was heavy, his muscles were strong, Yusuf noticed. He sat Nicolo down, leaning him against a twisted dry tree trunk.

He was still unconscious.

A few minutes later, when Nicolo woke up the first thing he saw it was that Arab warrior a few meters in front of him. He was not in an attack position, as he always was whenever they met in battles, but he still held his sword scabbard on alert.

Nicolo did not understand. He was no longer in the battle. How did he end up there? The sun setting beyond the forest of dry and almost leafless trees, informed him that time had passed and that fight was probably over.

And once again he had awakened from death.

The Italian wasted no time, he stood up, drawing his sword without ceremony.

Cautious, Nicolo waited for his opponent's first move. After so many battles, he already knew _that_ man's way of fighting. He was fast, faster than Nicolo and always bet that his first blow against him was what would caught him off guard.

Surprisingly, the Arab did not attack him. Instead, he looked at the ground, at a spot between them, but did not let go of the base of the sword, his hand still held it tightly in case Nicolo decided to assault.

Nicolo finally realized that _there_ were four sacks. They were the same brown sacks that his cavalry carried with supplies for troops that were around Antioch.

He quickly turned his attention to the man with a questioning look.

“I couldn't bring more than that” – Yusuf said in Arabic, obviously Nicolo did not understand.

After a few seconds, Nicolo finally seemed to comprehend. His gaze shone in surprise at Yusuf; the change of his expression had been so obvious to the Arab, that Yusuf felt a chill.

Nicolo lowered the sword slowly.

“This does not change anything” - Yusuf assured and even though Nicolo did not speak his language, he insisted on giving the Italian a threatening look, before leaving him there and walk quickly towards his companions.

Nicolo was static for a moment, his eyes fixed on the supplies for the Crusades troops, trying to reason out the purposes of _his_ enemy's actions.

He could not find any.

.

Antioch had been taken. Nicolo had not seen so much cruelty in his entire life. He was not a saint, much less naive in not knowing what it cost to win a war. Fights and deaths on the battlefield were inevitable. But what he had seen, those last days, would remain in his memory forever. Looting, rape, deaths of thousands of innocent people who could not defend themselves. Even though they were the pagans who did not deserve the possession of the Holy Land, Nicolo very much doubted that the wrath of God was without any mercy, without any compassion, like all the acts he had witnessed there..

It was dawn, the narrow streets were silent, the smell of blood and bodies was still scattered on the floor. He heard the sound of horses and hid in a small alley, the darkness of the night protecting him from being seen.

As soon as the Christian guards were away, he walked cautiously to his destination. A hidden shed where a shopkeeper kept his merchants. It was difficult to find that place, so far he seemed to have been the only crusader who had been there.

He went down the stairs, closing the door behind him.

"You came" - a weak voice greeted him, and soon an Arab teenage boy came to meet him. He was about thirteen years old and his face was covered with dirt and blood.

Nicolo smiled.

“Of course I came. I brought food and water” – he announced, placing the bundle he had brought with him on a dusty table. From the darkness, some people began to appear from their hiding places in the corners of the shed. For the most part, they were women and children and some elderly men. A group of a maximum of fifteen people. Survivors. They were faltering; fear still on their downcast faces, especially when facing Nicolo, one of the Christian warrior, who had taken over their hometown.

“Come on, he brought food, I already said you don't have to fear him” – the boy, who came to meet him said, in Arabic. His name was Rafiq; he was the only one there who Nicolo could communicate with. He was intelligent and very curious, he had learned to speak Latin only by reading the old books he took – hidden, of course -, from his father's library. His father was a librarian, and had died in the night of the city's invasion.

Soon all those people looked at the supplies brought by Nicolo. They started to eat eagerly, not knowing when would be the next time the warrior could bring them some help.

"There are news of a caravan heading to Aleppo” – Nicolo said to Rafiq – “The guards will not let it enter the city, but it will be able to continue. There are no orders to attack” - Rafiq nodded, paying attention – “I can make you find them. I found a way out without the guards noticing for a moment. Tell everyone to be prepared the next dawn”.

Rafiq looked at him in disbelief, smiling broadly afterwards; his eyes filled with tears of happiness, was the answer Nicolo needed about the power of God's compassion.

.

Yusuf was on top of a tree outside the walls of Antioch. He used a binocular to observe movement within the city. It had been barbaric. He had fought and died several times, but not by Nicolo's hands. No, this time they did not meet, although they knew that the other warrior was probably there. The city had been hit by every corner, total chaos.

Antioch resisted as brave as it could, but they could not prevent it. The few surviving warriors who managed to get out of that _slaughter_ alive, were trying now to gather information for a possible future regain. But the paths that the war was taking told him that what had happened in Antioch would be repeated soon, in the final target of those terrible invaders, _Jerusalem_.

They needed to observe the footsteps of the enemy, to know what strategies were being taken, and to try to getting time so the Arab army could join forces to protect the sacred city.

Noises caught his hears and shadows on the ground could be seen. It looked like a group of people. Guards? They were less than twenty. A man was ahead, tall, in the uniform of an Frank soldier; the binoculars adjusted the distance better, and that was when Yusuf recognized him. It was _Nicolo_.

He hadn't thought twice, whether why would Nicolo be doing outside Antioch, or if he was accompanied by more guards behind him. He was already stuck with that abominable defeat, and the fact that he didn't even faced his _main_ opponent, had upset him. They should face each other! Was that why _all that_ had happened? Because they had failed to kill each other? Again and again?

He came down from the trees quickly, his boyhood made him an excellent acrobat, and soon he jumped in front of the group, as soon as they arrived at a small spot already close to one of the roads outside the city.

Yusuf had his scimitar on his hands, angry eyes, prepared to attack his enemy.

Muffled screams cut the air.

Nicolo was startled and also held his sword, positioning himself between the Arab warrior and the group of...

Yusuf blinked twice, as if he didn't believe what he was seeing. They were Arabs; frightened young children, women covered with blood, elderly people with injuries.

Nicolo looked directly at him, apprehensive, different from so many times that he faced him, his look was not defiant, but worried.

“Please, brave warrior. Do nothing to him. He is a good man that Allah sent to help us. He didn't hurt us” - A teenage boy informed him, he was right behind Nicolo, and raised his hands as if asking to lower his sword. Yusuf did not do it immediately. In fact, he was too consumed to take any action other than to meet the Italian warrior's clear eyes. Nicolo, who did not understand Rafiq's Arabic words, still had his sword pointed at Yusuf.

“What did you say, young man?” - Yusuf asked slowly, his eyes still focused on the other soldier as he swallowed - This man...?

“He harbored and fed us and he is now guiding us to follow a caravan out of town”

“How do you know that?” - Yusuf asked in confusion. Nicolo tightened his hands around his sword.

“He told me. He's reliable. Please don't kill him” - the boy answered urgently.

Yusuf took a few seconds to read the expression of the others surviving behind Nicolo, they seemed not be afraid of the Christian, instead, they cowered behind him for protection.

Yusuf lowered his scimitar.

“Do you understand what he says?”

Rafiq was surprised by the question. In that completely unusual situation, of all possible questions, was that what the Arab soldier wanted to know?

“We speak in Latin” - Yusuf did not speak Latin. And he knew that Nicolo did not speak Greek. He had already uttered words in that language to him, and the reaction of the crusader was the same as when he spoke in Arabic.

Nicolo had not yet left his position of attack. His eyes, fixed on Yusuf's, did not even blinking. Yusuf examined him up and down. His head was tangled with a thousand senseless thoughts.

“Ask him what are his intentions with this"

Rafiq translated. It was Nicolo's turn to finally lower his sword, a strange look had taken its place on his face.

“He said he's doing what he thinks is right” – the boy told him; it had been Nicolo's answer.

They looked at each other. They seemed for a moment to forget that there were people there. Yusuf’s heart was racing as if it were going to come out of his chest. _That_ man had really caught him by surprise, such as a sharp arrow in his conscience.

Nicolo looked no different. It was the first time he had seen the expression on that determined face soften; black eyes shining like ebony.

“I'll take over from here" - Yusuf murmured, the soft tone in his voice was noticed by Nicolo ears, even though he didn't understand what he was saying - "There are more of us ahead, I don't believe they would be merciful"

Once again, Rafiq repeated in Latin what he said.

Nicolo nodded. They stared at each other for a few more seconds. Questions danced in their heads, odd sensations began to bubble in their stomachs.

Yusuf muttered a few words and soon the survivors started to follow him promptly, while Rafiq said goodbye to Nicolo:

“Thank you for what you did. You are a good man. May harmony always be with you”

Nicolo smiled. Yusuf watched the whole scene.

And as soon Nicolo took his first steps, quite attentively, into the city grounds again…

“Nicolo” – It was Yusuf, calling by his name one more time, making the Italian turn around again. He would like to have time - and also words - to ask how the hell did the Arab knew his name; but even if he had the time or the words he couldn't do it so anyway. He had been caught off guard by the small smile inside Yusuf’s beard – “See you in Jerusalem”

Incredibly, Nicolo did not need a translation to understand what he said.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now things are going to start getting good!
> 
> Please, leave me a comment! They encourage me to continue! :)


	5. Chapter 5

“Yusuf Al-Kaysani?! _Is that you?_ Yusuf, son of Ibrahim?! Brother of Samir?!” - Yusuf heard a voice behind him.

He was in Jerusalem, time had passed really quickly.

The Arab resistance had a strategy now: to try to gather as many warrior troops in the Holy City. Yusuf already knew this was going to happen. During those few years in this war among Christians, the enemy had come closer and conquered more and more territory. The crusaders were prepared. They came with a goal, and it was now up to Muslims to unite. Even though they came from different cities and even different cultures many times, they met with all the forces to defend Jerusalem. In those times, all help was needed. And right now, when turning and seeing the face of a fellow from his homeland, he felt his heart warm.

“Said!” - Yusuf exclaimed, recognizing the man with big beard and bulky hair. Said was older than he was; he was friends with his brother Samir actually. He was born with an atrophy on his right arm, and because of that, he had not signed up for the war at the beginning, so he had told him many months ago; so Yusuf was surprised to see him, there, in Jerusalem; he had probably enlisted to defend the Holy City – “I didn't imagine you would join now! I would say it is good to see you, my friend, but the circumstances are terrible”

“But Yusuf? I do not understand… You...? - Said babbled, holding Yusuf by the shoulders, and looking at him in astonishment – “We all thought you were dead!”

“Dead?”

“We received reports of your troops months after you left” - said the other man, still as if he didn't believe what he was seeing – “In fact, the news was confusing... One note said that you were killed in an ambush, another that you died on the way to Constantinople and... " - Yusuf froze. _They_ thought he was dead. How to explain that he has already been? How to explain that he had already experienced death? Many times? And his family... _what do they...?_

“My mother and Latiffa!?” - Yusuf interrupted him, speaking urgently. _How were they?_ Did they really think he was dead?

“Yusuf...” – Said stared at him in disbelief. Soon after, he took a deep breath, seeming to calm down, unlike Yusuf, who felt himself sinking even more in agony at every new minute – “You really don't know anything…”

.

_They must be fine._

Yusuf sighed with concern; it was time for his rest; but instead, there he was: sitting on his sleeping blanket, the warm night wind cutting his skin and the moon was full in the darkness of the sky above him. He was aware he needed energy for what he would face soon, he knew that every day, the struggle for the territory of Jerusalem was approaching. The Christians were taking too long, in fact Yusuf hoped that soon after Antioch, they would march towards Jerusalem, carrying that red flag, as if that gave them the right to invade anywhere.

But that was not what happened, while Muslim allies were uniting in Jerusalem, Christians would be delayed in their next onslaught. Yusuf did not know whether it was good or bad, he could not say. Just as they had time to strengthen themselves within the walls of the sacred land, the enemy also had time to design plans for invasion.

_They must be fine._

Said had told everything. His mother and Latiffa had received the _news_ of his death. And with the Crusades invading more and more of their land, trading was deteriorated, supplies ran out, food was scarce. He should have seen it coming, shouldn't he? His mother and Latiffa had accompanied a Caravan leading to the old Cyrenaica region. His mother, she was certainly smart; not only did his father took care of business, but his mother also understood the subject very well. The proximity to Greece and the safe distance to Jerusalem, certainly made _that_ a good decision. However, nothing was guaranteed. It was an important region, the right trade with the island of Crete made the region a good route and Yusuf believed that it could also be an easy target for Christians in the future, and that scared him.

_They must be fine._

Now more than ever, he looked forward to the end of it all. And he really believed it would soon be over. Soon _fate_ would fulfill its role, and if it were Allah's will, he would leave soon and return to his family.

_He would solve his mission._

Yusuf sighed again, his eyes turned to his hands. He watched them in the dark; his fingers still looked the same, he felt every muscle there as he flexed his joints. He didn't feel special and much less did he know why _that_ gift had been given to him. He was confused, yes, of all people, why him? And even more, why had someone so different from him also received _it_? Why an enemy? Why a rival?

“There has to be an explanation” - he murmured into the night, turning his eyes to the sky once again.

_Nicolo._

It had been months since their last meeting. He wondered what was the Christian steps? Was he on his way to Jerusalem? Was he still alive just like himself?

He no longer dreamed of the other warrior. Strangely, the dreams have stopped since the day they first met. It bothered Yusuf. Before, even without meeting the Italian or even knowing if he was even real, dreams plagued him a lot; he felt what the other felt, he saw what the other saw... it was disturbing, yes, but there, at that moment he would rather be able to know where Nicolo was. He wondered if the Italian was going to meet him, as Yusuf himself had summoned him the last time they saw each other.

The truth was, he didn't know what to expect from Nicolo. His act of compassion at Antioch had undoubtedly been noble. But why did he helped those people when he himself participated in all that devastation? _And why did Yusuf hatred for the warrior seem to have subsided after that?_

Yusuf couldn't get him out of his head; even without further appearances in dreams, Nicolo still occupied his mind every day.

Yusuf just couldn't say whether _that_ was good or bad.

Well, maybe he would find out eventually. But until then, he only knew one thing for sure: He and Nicolo were destined.

To defeat each other, he believed.

He was wrong.

If he really knew everything at that moment, maybe he would save himself from _a lot_ since the very beginning...

But then, well, there would be no good story to tell.

.

Nicolo stared at the stars, overshadowed by the flames of the fires of countless troops who lay siege a short distance from Jerusalem. Still, the full moon illuminated the city; and he enjoyed that, he must admit; a beautiful work of god: sparkling celestial reflectors pointing majestically to the Holy city.

He felt comfortable there, observing the sky from the top of the rocky structures: A beautiful landscape, no doubt; and of course, away from the other warriors who accumulated more and more around Jerusalem, and planned their taking.

He hesitated. He was faltering to understand. He did not doubt his God, of course, but his motivations and reasons. That war didn't look like God's work, it wasn't like that landscape that amazed him at that moment. No, it was bloody, without mercy.

And the crusaders still said it was in the name of God.

_God?_ The same God who had given him those _powers_? And if it wasn't God who had done that feat? It scared him. He didn't want to lose his faith. It had to have a reason for all of that.

A reason for him to abandon the life of a priest, a reason for him to have become immortal and mainly ... a reason why not only he was immortal.

That man. He couldn't get him out of his head. Why had God set _him_ on his way after all? Why had God also blessed _him_ with that gift. An enemy, like _that_ man. And why he, Nicolo, had been chosen for that?

Nicolo was confused. About his true role in all that history. As much as he didn't want to admit it, he now began to doubt what the real _plans_ would be for all of that. God’s plans. _Everything happens for a reason._

“Nicolo Di Genova” - A voice called after him; Nicolo turned around, and found a familiar face. He was the general of the troops he now accompanied: _Godfrey of Bouillon_ – “I thought you would join the new troops from Genova. I was waiting for your announcements to join your fellow countrymen, my esteemed knight”

“I never had that in mind, Commander. Genova's troops are committed to destroy the city walls. I do not agree with it”

Godfrey stood beside him, looking at him questioningly.

“And what do you agree with, Nicolo?”

Nicolo took a deep breath before answering. Godfrey was a noble man, strategist and very political. But the real reason to remain in the Frenchman's troops was that, of all the commanders, Nicolo considered him the most peaceful. He felt comfortable enough to expose his thoughts.

“Battles are inevitable, but I don't believe that it would be God's will that the blood of innocents should be spilled”

Godfrey just nodded. Even giving the short time that the Italian had been following his troops, the Frenchman had already realized that Nicolo was different from other warriors.

“I agree” - They were silent for a moment; just admiring the city in the distance – “What do you suggest?”

Nicolo turned to him in surprise. He knew that Godfrey admired him, perhaps for his serenity or for being an ex-priest, but he did not expect the commander to demand his opinion.

“I suggest that we be the first to go forward” - Godfrey looked at him carefully – “If we have any chance that this will not become a total carnage, it would be better if we tried to defuse the warrior resistance first and…”

“…protect citizens” – Godfrey concluded.

“I'm glad you have that thought as well”

“I cannot guarantee anything, Nicolo. You know it does not depend on me only”

“I will make sure that you are the first to enter” - Once again, the Frenchman frowned, hearing the Italian words – “I only ask you to try to avoid a massacre”

“I'll do my best, Nicolo” - Nicolo again turned to look at the city. But Godofrey continued to analyze him – “You are too good to be _here_ ” - The Frenchman whispered. Nicolo turned to him again without understanding the true meanings of those words. Godofrey just smiled - "If you survive this, brave warrior, I suggest you go in search of your true mission”

And the commander was gone, leaving a confused Nicolo behind.

. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know we are all looking forward to the beginning of their journey together. But I need to write some information that will be important to their story from now on.
> 
> Next chapter we will have a lot of emotion.
> 
> Thanks for the comments and kudos.


	6. Chapter 6

Without a doubt, everything that happens does have a purpose.

Since a single choice that each one makes, until events that can change the course of history.

The most incredible thing is that many facts that happen, right there when they happen, may not seem so important at all; perhaps the great vision of what everything really represents, it is something to be seen as a milestone in the future, since someone's small action until decisions that affect an entire society.

Whether it’s right or wrong.

Facts are facts, but history is something unpredictable. Especially because history is often only passed on to the world in just one version. How many important people in human history were not considered heroes decades after their death? And how many heroes have existed that we do not have knowledge until today? And yet, if everything has a purpose... would this purpose be the reason for the _anonymity_ of so many unknown heroes? So many stories? So many facts?

_Why?_

Among so many facts lived by humanity, the first take of Jerusalem by the Crusaders was one of the facts _chosen_ to perpetuate in history. The context itself was too immense, it was a Holy War after all, where two so different cultures battled until death and would continue to battle along centuries in new crusades that would come ahead. The concept of right and wrong was something abstract. Who was right? Would anyone be right? Who was defending what was _right_? Wasn't the conquest of God's land from the hands of heretics a noble enough motive? Wasn't defending your homeland from brutal invaders enough reason?

Perhaps it could all be avoided. Maybe all of that wouldn't happen if humanity were just a little bit more... _right_. Respect, compassion, reciprocity. Maybe with a little bit of that, it could all be avoided. But it was not. Blood, deaths and chaos could not be avoided.

And we all know well that even after _that_ war, more and more wars would come. More blood, deaths and chaos.

Humanity really _has_ a lot to learn…

But God…

Well, God has His _purposes_.

And those ones chosen to learn _all_ that throughout human existence... well, _they_ all had their missions.

Among the chosen ones, _Nicolo di Genova_ and _Yusuf Al-Kaysani,_ would become another _two_ anonymous heroes in history but with great responsibilities that would help humanity. They would become that… Heroes. They would be like those ones who would make a single choice that could change the course of history; but their actions would not be recognized in scriptures or history books; but the consequences of their actions, _those_ would initiate facts that would be reported for millennia ahead of them.

But _they_ still didn't know all that.

Not yet.

.

Nicolo woke up. For what seemed like the hundredth time. He hardly knew what day it was. He felt his body tingle, a crazy pain took place in every fiber of his muscles while his broken bones were put in place one by one.

He opened his eyes slowly, the faint sunlight told him what time it was. It was morning. Soon his brain began to detect the sensations around him as soon as the pain that consumed his members began to fade: The smell of the sea was unmistakable and it salted his nostrils; the sand below his body began to stick his face; the sound of waves not far from him... they came closer and went away at a slow pace.

He was on a beach.

Images began to form in his head, thousands of flashes of the latest events appeared in his memory in a matter of seconds…

.

_His plan with Godfrey of Bouillon had failed. They were unable to enter Jerusalem before chaos ensued. A strong Arabian guard was on top of the great city walls and received them with flying arrows on fire. His troops tried to move forward while some companions fell off their horses, lifeless. Thick spears launched into the air by Christian archers, Arab bodies were also thrown to the ground._

_The cavalry moved on. They couldn't stop. He was beside Godfrey, he saw the determination on his commander's face, but also the fear of failing his charge. The troop was well trained, not just French warriors, but more of Christians who supported the concepts of their commander. They had to get in before any other crusades. They were advancing, they were numerous too, the catapults behind them reached the enemies overhead._

_Almost there. Almost._

_That was when an arrow hit his horse. And he went to the floor. He rolled and his femur broke in half. It hurt as hell, but Nicolo already knew that would only take seconds to his exposed bone to return normal again. Seconds._

_It took this same matter of seconds to the Arabs to come down to the ground; their ropes being supported by the wall; they were incredible acrobats. God, no!_

_The battle was body and swords now; his injured leg still did not allow him to rise as the battle took place a few meters from the gates of Jerusalem._

_“NICOLO!”_

_He recognized that voice. Finally. They met again. The Arab warrior remained the same, his black eyes threatening as he approached Nicolo, who now was managing to kneel as he waited impatiently for the pain to fade. There he was, after all that time. He was right, the Arab, they would meet in Jerusalem. And if it was God's will, for the last time, as so Nicolo asked Him in his prayers, in order to finally put a end to that damn mission he had with that Muslim. But the Arab was at a advantage now. _

_Nicolo grabbed his sword trying to make it his support to put himself on his feet. He couldn't, his leg bone was still exposed beyond his flesh, it was a big fracture, he knew it would take a little longer, but this waiting time could be fatal for him, fatal for Jerusalem._

_Yusuf was just steps away from him now. Their troops were fighting around them. Dying. But they didn't seem to notice any other movement anymore. They only saw each other at that moment._

_Yusuf wielded his sword in an atypical position, on its side, as if he was about to…._

_Nicolo froze._

_He was going to cut his head off._

_Adrenaline took over his entire body. He tried to get up again. Unsuccessfully. He was still in a lot of pain. He started to despair._

_Nicolo had already thought about it. Perhaps that was the only way they died. That was how he intended to finally kill him! But apparently he was going to have that end. There in Jerusalem, where he was sure it would be his last battle with that man. It would end like that. With a severed head. But he really hoped it wasn't his own. _

_“God, please” - he whispered, Yusuf was already in front of him. The sword wielded in the horizontal direction, ready to behead Nicolo._

_“Stand up!” - Yusuf shouted in Arabic. He was just a meter from Nicolo as he watched him from above; but he did nothing. His eyes were angry, furious, but he didn't attack. He watched the enemy's leg for a second, and then the despair in the clear eyes of the Christian warrior in front of him – “Stand up!”_

_Nicolo's expression faltered for an instant, as he faced the other man. Swords cut in the air, horses and warriors on the ground. He couldn't believe it. Was that man giving him a chance to fight?_

_“NICOLO!” - This time it was Godfrey. He was still on his horse, and he had just defeated yet another enemy. He made a move to help Nicolo against his Arab warrior._

_“No! You have to enter. Go ahead, commander!” - Nicolo said, finally standing up and wielding his sword, looking at Yusuf who had not taken his eyes off him, but had taken two steps back from the Christian, also positioning his sword for the confrontation. Godfrey was in shock for a few seconds: did he really see his soldier's bones coming inside his flesh again?_ _A loud, dry, thunderous noise took place in the air. That was the gates of the wall. They were overthrow to the ground. In the distance, other Crusader troops could be seen marching in the direction of that battle, taking advantage of that unexpected opportunity. No! They had to get in first! – “GO!”_

_“Follow your mission, Nicolo” - and Godfrey was gone, as fast as he could, into Jerusalem, at the same time that Nicolo and Yusuf started fighting._

.

Yusuf coughed what seemed to be sand that had entered his mouth. He tasted blood too. The pain in his head had warned him that, this time, he had died of a big trauma right there; he felt his skull painfully being rebuilt.

He recognized the beach as soon as he opened his eyes, unable to believe that they had come this far.

How many days have they been fighting? How many times had they died? How did they manage to drag themselves in that eternal sword battle to the beach?

He remembered right away. They had fallen off a cliff. They had rolled down the mountain to the sands at dawn. And now the early sunlight announced yet another day. One more, where they hadn't died.

The Crusaders had entered Jerusalem. He heard screams, he saw blood, so much blood. His people were slaughtered without mercy, without compassion. Soldiers and innocents. Not just Muslims, but also Jews and Christians from the East. Anyone who was in Jerusalem.

They had been defeated. Crushed by men in the name of a God who spread devastation.

The guard had failed to stop the first attack. The gates were thrown to the ground. He remembered.

Nicolo was there.

They fought.

The war around them.

The deaths.

They did not stop fighting.

Screams.

No, they couldn't stop!

They couldn't help them!

They had to fight!

 _For what?_ He had failed; he did not fulfill his mission. He had not defended his land, and even after days of struggle, death and resurrection, he had not finished with Nicolo.

He heard metal footsteps, staggering towards him. He knew who it was. He rested his hands on the ground and set slowly, his hair getting rid of the sand of the beach with that act. He was tired. Too tired. He couldn't do it anymore. He had failed, he had lost.

The last image he had of Jerusalem was of flames ravaging the houses inside the city gates.

That could not be Allah's will! No!

“Stand up” - It was Nicolo's voice. Yusuf knew what he wanted. He had already memorized that word. He had told Nicolo countless times in his own language himself, and he knew that the other man had also learned its meaning in Arabic.

Yusuf looked at him, still on his knees. The morning sun illuminated the other man's silver armor. His face was covered in blood, as was his entire body. Yusuf was no different from him, of course. They were in a deplorable state.

Nicolo's mouth trembled inside his thin beard. His clear eyes were watery. Nicolo had also remembered everything. Jerusalem and its people covered by the flames of a _man-made_ hell. It was not what Nicolo wanted. No, Godfrey had failed. It had been a catastrophe.

He felt empty. His beliefs and motivations were overwhelmed by people without heart. And now, he could not stop wondering if it all was really for _God_. Nicolo was devastated, anguished, confused. Jerusalem, kilometers away from them, was bleeding.

And _that_ man. That man there kneeling in front of him made him even more confused. Even more stunned. His black eyes met his, but this time, without anger or rage, but with desolation. He saw the Arab watch his face without moving.

“Stand up!” - he spoke again in Italian. Then in Latin. Then he tried to reproduce the same sound that the Arab warrior said when he was the one who ordered Nicolo to get up.

Yusuf laughed bitterly at his attempt, but did not move.

“No”

“Stand up!” - that made Nicolò very angry; he knew what that word meant. Yusuf again did nothing. Nicolo looked fiercely at his Scimitar, thrown from a short distance from them. The Christian took it, and deposited it roughly in the other man’s hand. He felt an electric current when their slippery bloody hands touched – “Stand up” - he said slowly, feeling his eyes fill with tears that didn't fall. That bastard _had_ to get up. He _had_ to face him. What point had it all had then? Why did they fight all this time then? What was all that for then? The war? The battles? The resurgences? For what?

Yusuf was silent, watching the other man's despair. He did not understand. Nicolo had made it, hadn't he? Wasn't that his purpose? The Crusaders had done it! What did Nicolo expect now?

“No” - and he dropped his sword, his eyes still glazed in his enemy's clear eyes.

Nicolo looked at him with a mixture of disbelief and anger. He watched the Arab's sword fall to the ground as he was still motionless on his knee in front of him. The sun bathed their skin covered in blood and dirt as they both began to breathe hard.

No. That bastard couldn't surrender. No!

In a rapid movement, Nicolo crossed his sword in the air, but he stopped himself as soon the sharp blade met his enemy's neck, drawing a trickle of blood from there. Nicolo was trembling, but Yusuf remained static, feeling the blade on his skin, the wound trying to close, but being prevented by the pressure that Nicolo still made with his sword in the region.

“STAND UP!” - the words were spat out on his face in Arabic. Nicolo was trying as he could.

Yusuf finally moved. A hand went to Nicolo's sword blade pointed at him. He forced it hard against his neck; blood now came thick from his hand being cut and from his neck tearing. But his black eyes didn't even blink. He tightened his grip on the blade, his expression became determined and fierce. His eyes were filling with tears that didn't fall either.

“No” - He replied simply. In Italian. Nicolo looked at him in astonishment. His eyes flashed in surprise. He could not say whether Yusuf had really surrendered to his death or dared him to do so.

Nicolo tightened his sword even more, before dropping it to the ground. He took a wobbly step back. His sword fell in front the Arab and now it was Yusuf’s turn to be confused, while his neck and hand wounds healed once more before Nicolo's eyes.

They stared at each other. The silence of the beach being cut by the howl of the sea breeze, the same breeze messed up their hair. Their dirty skins were heated by the rays of sunlight coming from the horizon.

_Without a doubt, everything that happens does have a purpose._

If Yusuf had killed Nicolo days before when he had the chance...

If Nicolo had killed Yusuf at that very moment…

But they made a choice.

Unconsciously or not, they made a choice.

_They would be like those ones who would make a single choice that could change the course of history._

Well, they already were.

But there, after countless minutes of staring at each other, they still didn't know what their choices entailed.

They didn't look away. Not even when Yusuf got up and walked towards Nicolo, stopping just a step away from him. It was a lot to understand. And they still had no idea. They didn't even know what they were going to do from then on. There, during those minutes, they tried to get the answers from each other, looking at each other eyes as if at some point, one of them would reveal the truth.

The truth behind the war, the truth about their God, the truth about why they could not die.

Why was this happening to two so distinct men? They hated each other, didn't they? Their people hated each other and the proof was that damn war they faced. Then why? For what?

A gust of strong wind passed by them, finally seeming to wake them up. They insistently looked at the sea at the same time, and also closed their eyes and breathed that smell of renewal that only the sea could bring.

Or maybe it wasn't the sea.

Renovation.

They face each other again, both finally realizing the symmetry of their actions.

It had to have a purpose.

_Well, God has His purposes._

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay. I will try to come back soon next time! Now their journey will begin! In the next chapter, the interactions begin and they will finally "meet". But that does not mean that it will be easy for them!  
> I am very happy that you are enjoying it! Thank you for following the story!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello people! I apologize for the delay in updating! I was busy in September, but now I can spend more time writing!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the new chapter! Pleaseeeee leave me reviews, I love them!
> 
> See you soon!

Yusuf could not say that he had never thought about how it would be like to experience _that_. It had already crossed his mind once or twice in those moments of abstract daydreams that suddenly come to our heads. He had learned from an early age that it would happen one day. It was a process, after all, a process that all human beings must go through. To die, to be judged for your actions, to be reborn, either in paradise as some believed, or again as another being on earth.

But there was _that_ place between death and judgment, wasn't it? Yes, that had been taught to him since he was aware of his actions. And yet, years later, in his adolescent and adult days, when he traveled as a merchant with his family and visited countless cities inside and outside his continent, his knowledge of _that_ place has improved. Traditions were different in each place; even if they believed in the same god and the same prophet, cultures and customs could present some singular and unique of each region and this was also reflected in the way of describing certain religious concepts.

But even so, of course, he would know how to recognize where he was, – or at least he thought he would. And although as much as he tried to find one simple justification, Yusuf really didn't understand what he had done in his life that was so terrible that he was send to _this_.

Yusuf was striding across the sands of the beach. He had spent that entire day walking. The stone wall of the cliff that surrounded the sea in that region prevented him from following any path other than the coast. A little earlier in the morning, he hoped to find somewhere that would give him better access to climb that huge rocky mountain range, but now, with the sun setting behind the mountains and slowly cooling the afternoon, his only goal was to find a place to spend the night, find something to eat and of course, water.

He did not know how many days he had been without sleep, without eating and without drinking anything. And the fact that he realized that day that in addition to not dying in battle, he would also not die of hunger, fatigue or thirst, was what indeed made him finally suppose that he could only be in that place.

_Barzakh._

He had imagined it would be different. A place of reflection, a place after death and before the kingdom of heaven, made to purify any evil that could still be inside anyone. But in fact, he remembered that on one of his business trips with his brother Samir, an old man had try to convince him that _that_ place was where each person would be punished for the actions they made in their past life until the day of the final judgment.

Yusuf threw a sidelong look back and found a few feet from him, a pair of clear eyes. Nicolo stopped walking, his expression hesitant and alert. Yusuf understood why. He had shouted a few times at the Italian to leave him alone and to stop following him. And again and again, Nicolo did not obey, of course. He followed him all day, keeping a safe distance between them. And every time the Arab turned in his direction and realized that, yes, the crusader was still right there, following him closely, he had tried to push him away. Not with physical violence, their swords were well projected by their scabbards, but Yusuf told him, insisted and shouted for him to go. He screamed at him that it was over. He told him to go back to Jerusalem or his homeland, wherever it was. It didn't matter to Yusuf, he just didn't want to be in the presence of the Catholic warrior anymore.

And every time, every bloody time, Nicolo bit into his cheeks and said nothing. He just hoped that Yusuf would finish saying the words that he did not understand - but he knew in a way what they meant -, he waited to Yusuf snort once more in resignation and walk again and then Nicolo would follow him, again.

This last time, Yusuf said nothing to him. He just looked around and stopped walking. The rocky mountain range continued ahead, it was not yet possible to see where it ended or if there would be a cave that he could spend the night inside.

Yes, he could only be paying for his sins, couldn't he? That is why he was there, on an endless path, being followed by the person he had probably hated the most in his life, without being able to be understood and without being able to understand.

This seemed to be the most logical justification. Although he still found it hard to believe. Paying off sins among mortals themselves? It seemed a little absurd. And yet, even though he wasn't an example of purity or innocence, he didn't really know what he could have done to deserve this. He was a worker, he helped his family, respected his culture and religion... So why?

The sun was almost gone, its rays tinting the sky with an almost perfectly calculated mixture of red, orange and pink.

He looked at his bloody, dirty hands.

 _Barzakh_ or not, he needed to clean up.

.

Nicolo also stopped walking, as soon as the Muslim stopped moving. He wasn't sure what the other man would do that time. He had shouted incomprehensible words to him all day, pointing to the opposite side from the way they were walking. He could only identify a few words and one of them was Jerusalem. He knew what the other one wanted: for him to walk away, so he kept his distance. But even so, he continued to follow him. Nicolo knew where they had come from when they woke up, as well as the probable way back to Jerusalem: beyond those stone mountains from where they had fallen last dawn.

That morning, it seemed that they both understood that there was no point anymore in that endless battle they had fought.

The Holy war had ended with the victory of the Crusaders.

That had been Nicolo's goal when he left Genova for the Holy war.

And so it was done.

And he felt horrible.

He did not want to return to Jerusalem. He did not want to have to face the consequences of the devastation of a city that should be the landmark of the conquest of Christianity on the sacred ground.

Being honest with himself, he barely knew what he wanted.

He just wanted to get out of there.

Following his enemy seemed to be the most plausible thing to do. He didn't know what he would face if he ventured out into those lands alone. Not that he really counted on any help from the other man. And of course, as much as he was raised up within a religious teaching that should theoretically be humble and merciful, he was still proud enough to ask any help from the Arab.

Yes, they were no longer fighting and killing each other, but that didn't mean they were allies.

But he didn't know where to go or what to do. He was so confused that his head hurt. Or maybe it was dehydration and hunger. As much as he could not die, it did not mean that he did not feel what was the fatigue and tiredness of having spent so many days just trying to eliminate his enemy.

And if God still had a plan for him, perhaps He had not placed that man on his way in vain. The other warrior also wanted to get out of there, didn't he? And he probably knew those lands better than he did... He didn't have much of a choice but to follow the Arab's footsteps. He wouldn't kill Nicolo anymore, he made that very clear, so there was nothing he could do anyways. He could scream and rage, but there would come a time when he would give up trying to get Nicolo to leave.

Well, that moment seemed to have arrived that evening.

Nicolo watched him look at the mountains and then at his own hands soiled with blood and dirt.

Then he took his scimitar off his back and dropped it on the sand. He removed his armor and some things inside it - a notebook, a cloth, an empty canteen and a small knife, which Nicolo already knew he had, it was with _it_ that he had killed him once - and then got rid of his clothes. Nicolo looked away as soon as his pants fell to the floor. The Muslim didn't seem to mind, in fact he seemed to ignore him anyway, acting like he wasn't there. Well, he had changed his tactics and now he seemed to pretend he wasn't in the company of anyone.

Yusuf walked calmly towards the sea and Nicolo only looked at him again when he realized he had dived in the calm salty water. The other man continued to ignore him as he cleaned up with his back facing him.

Nicolo then looked at his own hands, seeing that he was not as different as the other man. He also needed to clean up.

Nicolo then looked back to the path they had been on all day. He remembered seeing some dry branches stuck in some rocks of mountain just a kilometer back that could help him keep warm at night; the sun setting over the horizon announced that it would be a cold night.

He then cast a last glance towards the sea, seeing that the other man was cleaning his curly hair with both hands; he could see at a glance, the muscles in his tanned back contracting with the movement.

Nicolo then turned and walked to the other direction.

.

Yusuf was sitting on the sand at the same point that they had stopped earlier, peeling the only fish he had managed to catch after venturing and swimming deeper into the sea. He found a coral a few meters from the beach and soon hurried to get his knife and cloth that were left behind. He had not find Nicolo when he came out of the water, much less the Italian was there when he returned a while later with his dinner and some small stones that he would use to try to make a fire.

It seemed that Nicolo had finally given up on following him after so much insistence.

“Great, I hope he goes back to the hell where he must have come from” – Yusuf had murmured to himself as he dressed, putting the armor aside. His clothes were in rags, but the sun showed its last rays in the sky above him and the night came to the beach cooling his wet skin.

He looked sideways at times and scanning the deserted beach; he couldn't see much beyond the sand hills that prevented him from having a wide field of view.

He tried unsuccessfully to make a fire by rubbing the sea stones and a piece of cloth from his own clothes, then he decided to try this later and started to peel the fish. There were many scales and that made him impatient, or at least he said that was the reason. He was hungry, he needed to clean that fish and try a fire again to roast it and warm up himself as well.

For what seemed like the hundredth time to him, he turned his attention back to the direction he had been walking all day; there was no sign of the Catholic.

"This is ridiculous" - he had murmured, lowing his head again and rubbing the blade of his little knife harder on the animal's skin that would be his meal.

After a few moments, Yusuf heard the sound of something metallic. He turned his face again and found Nicolo depositing his armor on the sand. He was clean and his wet clothes were glued to his body; he carried under one of his arms thin and dry sticks and a leather canteen in one hand. They looked at each other for a moment in the distance, and Yusuf tried to suppress a strange feeling of relief that took over his stomach.

He was hungry, that was it.

He turned to the fish in his hands and went back to work on it.

Nicolo watched the medium-sized fish in the Arab’s hands and his mouth immediately fill with water. He had not found food, after cleaning himself in the sea, he had tracked the waters and unfortunately he had not found anything that could serve him as a meal. Well, at least he had found those kindling sticks, probably translated by the wind, on top of some of the flatter rocks of the stone mountains that he had managed to climb a few meters above. God had been generous to him, and there he also found a small puddle of water on a more concave rock; it was rainwater that had evaporated for days, Nicolo supposed, but it was enough to fill his canteen; he had drunk only a few sips of water and his dry throat thanked him. But he knew he needed to ration; he wasn't sure if God would grace him with more drinking water anytime soon.

Nicolo sat on the sand floor a few meters from Yusuf. He watched him finish cleaning the food and then kneel down, going on to the next task: to make fire by rubbing rocks and, of course, completely ignoring his presence.

Nicolo sighed, also starting to make his own fire. He broke some thinner branches with his hands, then positioned some of them on top of a thicker branch that he had chosen precisely because it had a small hole in it. With another branch more robust in the vertical, he rubbed the pieces of wood, moving his hands quickly in a back and forth motion. In a short time, there was smoke, he blew, then he rubbed more, then he blew again and fed the small fire with more shredded branches. Within minutes, he had red flames and enough heat to keep himself warm. Satisfied, he took his canteen and took another sip of water.

When he looked in the direction of the Muslim, he found the pair of black eyes on him. He saw the other man swallow hard as he looked at his water canteen; Yusuf soon noticed that he was being watched and turned to his stones, rubbing them with more strength and will.

Nicolo did not look away and began to observe the man. His curly hair seemed looser from the moisture of seawater and fell on his forehead. He saw Yusuf taking a deep breath and to swallow again, this time with more difficulty.

The Italian looked at the canteen between his hands. For a moment, he remembered the monastery and when he shared bread with those who needed it.

He didn't seem to reason when he took a deep breath and stood up, walking towards the other man. When Yusuf looked up at him, Nicolo held out his half-full canteen.

Yusuf looked at his hand and then at the Catholic's face; his expression was a mixture of surprise and incomprehension.

Nicolo just made another movement with the canteen, as offering it to Yusuf.

Yusuf did nothing, just continued with his eyes glued to his, as if he expected something to happen.

“What do you not comprehend? Take it” - Yusuf did not understand Nicolo’s words, but when the Italian handed the canteen more instinctively to him, he took it from his hands and took a large sip of water. He couldn't help but groan in satisfaction. Nicolo watched his Adam's apple move when he swallowed the liquid. Yusuf wiped his finally moist lips with the back of his hand and held the canteen back to him. However, before the Arabic could try to tell him anything, he continued – “These stones look wet. You will not be able to make fire with them” - Yusuf looked at him questioningly once more. Nicolo repressed the urge to roll his eyes. That would be difficult. He then bent down and took the stones from Yusuf's hands. The Arab was startled by the other man's acts and moved away quickly on alert.

Nicolo stood still for a few seconds. Also hesitant. Yusuf scanned him from top to bottom, as if he expected some kind of trap coming from his enemy. Nicolo understood that he could not make many sudden movements. He then calmly ran the stones through his fingers, noted that they were indeed really wet and spoke slowly:

“They are wet” - he pointed to the stones – “They are not suitable for making fire” - and slowly he pointed to his own flames a few meters away. Yusuf remained silent. He continued to stare at him, his brow furrowed and his lips pursed. Nicolo sighed, leaving the stones in the sand and rising leisurely – “Never mind” - and walked back to his place.

Yusuf watched him sit and hold his hands out to the fire and even from that distance, he could see how the flames from the small fire were reflected in the other warrior's clear eyes.

The Muslim also sighed, moving his attention to his peeled and ready-to-be-roasted fish. He looked again at Nicolo, not finding any kind of food near him.

A strange feeling of compassion came over Yusuf. He knew it was it, although he couldn't believe he would ever feel that for his hated enemy. He decided not to think too much about it and then stood up, took the fish and his belongings in his arms and moved towards the other man.

This time it was Nicolo's turn to look at him in surprise when he deposited his belongings on the floor next to his.

He took a while before starting to speak, as if it cost him to say what would come out of his mouth:

“You have fire” - e pointed to the flames in front of the Italian – “And water” - and pointed to the canteen on the sand. He then sighed deeply once again – “I have food” - he held out the fish – “Let's share”

Nicolo blinked a few times. Yusuf was looking at him seriously; the fish spread in his hands made him salivate once again. He also didn't understand the Muslim's words, but he knew what he meant.

Nicolo then nodded and Yusuf imitated him, also shaking his head.

The Catholic hurried to feed the fire more with the rest of the sticks, but separated three in particular to serve as a support for the fish. He extended it to Yusuf, who instinctively understood what the other suggested and knelt before the flames to try to make a kind of pedestal to bake the food. Nicolo helped him, holding the fish in place while Yusuf straightened the branches.

They exchanged a look while doing that task. There was still hesitation, surprise and a certain curiosity; they could notice all there by looking into each other's eyes.

When they finished and the fish started to roast, they sat in front of the fire, but not too close to each other; their bodies facing the beach. Nicolo picked the canteen again and took another sip of water, then offered it to Yusuf one more time. Their fingers touched this time and it was as if an electric current had passed through their spines.

They tried to ignored it as Yusuf also took another sip of water and saved the rest for when they needed it later.

They didn't exchange more words that night. Although, deep inside, there were so many questions that they desired to put out.

In any case, it would be very difficult to communicate anyway - that's what they thought at least.

After eating, just like someone coming from a war - which they did -, they just watched the sea in a strangely comfortable silence.

The night had taken over the sky, filling the dark blue curtain above them of sparkling stars that witnessed the first obstacle that Nicolo and Yusuf would overcome together.

Ahhh, they had no idea.

.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you like it. Please leave comments! :)


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